The Moment Girl
by Tatzelwurm
Summary: Sometimes, very rarely, a person can realise that their whole life has been leading up to one particular moment. For Sherlock Holmes the moment is a girl, bleeding and running and unafraid. But the girl vanishes as quickly as she appeared, the only trace of her a quickly fading blue box, leaving Sherlock wishing to know more. But how can you find someone who leaves without a trace?
1. Chapter 1

Life is but a massive compendium of moments. A huge collection of thoughts and fleeting glances, stolen seconds, brief storms of imagination. Most of these moments are forgotten, lost to the depths of the mind. So many lost moments, memories faded to nothing in the vast ocean of thoughts. Beautiful moments, heartbreaking moments, pure white fear moments. These can be lost, never to be retrieved. But sometimes in a person's life, there is a moment so clear, so damningly important that it triumphs over all other moments in that person's mind and if they can be sure of one thing, it is that this moment will never, ever be lost and will stay with them until the day that they breathe their very last.

For Sherlock Holmes, his moment occurred on a very regular day in early Spring. He wasn't looking for a moment, but it came hurrying down the street anyway and branded itself into his cavernous conscience with one unwitting look. This moment's name was Tabitha Grey. And she was unforgettable.

There was some blood on Sherlock's hands. It wasn't his own and he didn't like that it was on his hands. He and John had been involved in a run in with a few of the crooks they had been tailing. They had had to fight dirty until Lestrade had arrived with his men. The criminals were now in custody but that wasn't stopping their messy, staining blood from being smeared on his knuckles.

"Blood is such a bore." he said matter-of-factly. Doctor Watson only hmm'd in response. He was sporting and impressive bloody nose, corked with two wads of gauze. The front of his jumper was dark red and he was in no mood for Sherlock's uninjured complaining.

Sherlock looked up from his knuckles to continue his rant when he noticed someone in the distance. A girl, short and slight, running down the pavement as fast as her legs could carry her. Reasons why she could be running automatically began to buzz through Sherlock's head. She could be late but she had been sprinting for many metres down the street, a feat that made her reasons seem more frantic. Perhaps she had been attacked, or been at the scene of an accident. Sherlock assessed her physical appearance. Red hair, pale like a sepia photograph, white skin. Clothes: boots, men's. Scuffed, well worn, broken laces. Dress, blue, heavy material, probably vintage. A tear in the left shoulder, showing a deep cut, blood now dried, on her upper arm. And then, as she reached them and was about to pass them by, she looked up and her eyes met Sherlock's for one split second. Green eyes, wide eyes, but not wide with fear. Wide with… a jolt went through Sherlock. He didn't know. He couldn't read her. He found he could obtain no scrap of information about her situation from her gaze. Her eyes were as deep and unfathomable as the furthest reaches of the deepest, darkest ocean trenches.

And then she brushed past him, sending him thumping into John. The girl threw a "sorry" into the air behind her without stopping.

Sherlock stood there, frozen as he looked after the girl racing down the street. "John" He said. John ignored him, rubbing his arm where Sherlock and been pushed into him and mumbling about rude youths. "John" Sherlock said again and this time his friend looked up at him. "What is it?"

Sherlock raised a hand as if in a trance and pointed after the girl. "I don't know anything about her." John frowned, "What"?

"I don't know who she even is." And with that, Sherlock was gone, sprinting down the street after the girl, his long coat billowing behind him. John was left standing on the pavement, confused and annoyed. "Sherlock! Where are you going! Damn it."

Sherlock however, was catching up with the girl, who didn't know she was being pursued. She ran with a purpose, looking down each alley she passed as if searching for something. Then suddenly, with little warning, she careened into a small side street between a newsagent's and a Chinese restaurant. Sherlock put on a new burst of speed but suddenly ground to a halt. A loud noise was emanating from the alley way, like a mix of howling wind and grinding metal. It was accompanied by a whirlwind gust that blew leaves and bits of rubbish out onto the main street.

Sherlock hurried the last few paces to the mouth of the alley but when he looked down it he was blinded by the rushing wind.. He got the vague impression of something big and blue, and a flashing light before he closed his eyes against the wind, his arm shielding his face. Then, as suddenly as it came, the wind and the noise died down again, leaving only an eddy of air spinning an empty crisp packet and some newspaper where the blue object had been.

Sherlock opened his eyes again and lowered his hand. The alley way, which he saw now was a dead end, was completely empty. There was no sign of the girl with the green eyes.

Sherlock did not even register John hurrying up beside him, with a bewildered look on his face. The doctor held his hands out in an exaggerated shrug. "Sherlock, what on earth was all that about."

Now Sherlock's eyes stopped scanning the empty alley and he looked down at his friend. "I just wanted to know who she was" he said quietly, and John could get no more out of him on the subject after that.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's silence seemed as though it would last indefinitely, though John could tell he tried to battle it. He would pick up his violin to play but would only get as far as resting it under his chin before he drifted off in thought, eyes blankly staring at the carpet. The frequency with which he conducted various experiments tapered down to only three or so a week and John came to find himself worried by the lack of body parts in the house, an emotion he never really expected to feel.

After a fortnight of Sherlock's moping behavior, John decided it was time for him to intervene. He made the both of them a cup of tea. Sherlock accepted his without acknowledgement, only looking up when he realized John was still standing in front of him, his own tea in hand. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow and John sat on the armchair opposite him.

"What's the matter Sherlock?" he asked casually. "You aren't yourself. No experiments, no excursions, you haven't insulted my intelligence in over a week." John knew Sherlock would not find the joke amusing but he was surprised to see Sherlock look away and out the window, as if avoiding eye contact.

"Was it… was it that girl? The one who bumped into us? It was wasn't it" Silence from Sherlock so John continued. "Was she, um, pretty? I didn't see her face." more silence. "Sherlock if, you know, you thought she was, or your found her attractive or she I dunno, "touched something deep inside you" or something, that's ok… it's doesn't mean… it's not a sign of weakness."

Sherlock looked back to John, impatient but trying not to offend his friend. "She did not make me desire relations with her, if that's what you're getting at. It was more than that. It was-"

Sherlock abruptly stopped, turning to face the window again. He was quiet for so long that John half considered giving him a comforting pat on the knee but was relieved when Sherlock spoke again.

"I couldn't read her John. I couldn't tell anything about her from her appearance, her expression, her behavior. And I know there was something in there and I know its important, just as sure as I know that she and whatever that blue object was vanished into nothing. She is the great mystery!" he finished dramatically, throwing his hands in the air.

John didn't say anything. He didn't know what to say. If Sherlock was confused and couldn't figure something out, then it was less than likely that he could.

"We could try to find her. I mean, you can find anyone in the world these days, if you try hard enough." Sherlock held up his hand. "No. she can't be found. I'll never see her again. Its as though she isn't part of this world."

John found himself more confused and worried than he had bee before their conversation. He was searching around for some question to ask, whose answer might make him understand more, when there was a knock on the door.

Sherlock was lost in thought again, staring out the window so John got up to answer the door.

Mrs. Hudson was standing at the top of the stairs, her usual friendly smile on her face. "Hello dear." she said

"Afternoon Mrs. Hudson. What can I do for you?" John asked tightly, still confused about Sherlock's behavior. Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands together, "Oh nothing, I just thought I should come and let you know, the new tenants are here. They're moving their things in now." John frowned, "New tenants? What do you mean new tenants?"

Mrs. Hudson frowned, "Well the ones moving into the basement apartment of course. I did tell you about this several times. You boys just don't listen?"

"There's a basement apartment?" Was all John said in reply.

"Of course there's a basement apartment." said Sherlock, suddenly behind him. "Do you not pay any attention at all John?"

Mrs. Hudson had turned and was on her way back down the stairs. "Well anyway," she said over her shoulder, "They're bringing all their belongings in now in case you want to come and meet them."

John was still considering when Sherlock pushed past him, obviously grateful of some new people to analyze. John himself was still slightly anxious to figure out what was wrong with Sherlock but decided this temporary distraction was probably a good break from Sherlock's distant silence for now, so he followed his friend down the stairs.

The hallway at the bottom of the stairs was filled with a plethora of boxes and trunks, stacks of books and bin bags of clothes. Sherlock glanced at the various items of his new neighbors' property. A couple, younger woman, older man. Avid readers, foodies. The girl a five foot three flower gardener and animal lover, the man…

"Hello there" a loud, boisterous voice sang, and Sherlock found himself accosted by a forced handshake, strong and friendly. The man behind the handshake was dressed in brown tweed, a maroon bowtie around his neck, knocked slightly skew wiff. He had dark hair and a strong, clever face and his eyes sparkled with a ferocity that showed curiosity and also a knowledge of great things.

"I'm John Smith." He said, smiling. "I'm your new neighbor." Sherlock didn't answer and it was John, who had just reached the bottom of the stairs who replied, "Hello, Mr. Smith. Nice to, um, have new neighbors. I'm John Watson. Doctor John Watson." Mr. Smith looked delighted at this news. "Are you really? Doctor Watson? In 221B Baker Street. How wonderful." John frowned slightly and said, "Um ok-" But Smith interrupted, looking to Sherlock, who realized their hands were still clasped in a handshake. "And you are?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes but said, "Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective." At this Smith broke the grasp between them and clapped his hands together, as though in glee, "Of course you are. How very entertaining. Just wait til I tell Tabitha."

John was still frowning on the stairs and interrupted Smith's glee in a firm yet confused voice, "Sorry, not to seem rude or anything, but you seem to know who we are. Have you read my blog or something?" Smith looked blank for a moment, "Your blog? Your… blog. Yes. I read your blog. That is how I know who you are. Very good blog by the way. Very… informative." Sherlock was still quiet, still narrow eyed, watching this bizarre man who had something off about him when there was a scuffling at the door and a figure entered, face obscured by yet another stack of boxes.

"don't mind me I can manage these very heavy boxes on my own. What on earth have you got in here doc…" But the girl didn't finish her sentence as she dumped the boxes on the floor and noticed John and Sherlock looking down at her. "Oh. Hello." She said with a sheepish smile. Smith gestured to the two as the girl straightened and smoothed her skirt. "Tabitha. Meet Doctor John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective."

The girl shot Smith a look of something between incredulity and excitement and held out her hand to Sherlock with a "nice to meet you."

But Sherlock didn't take her hand. Because the girl before him looked exactly the same as when he had seen her last, down to the torn, bloodstained shoulder of her dress that was mostly, but not quite hidden under a loosely wrapped shawl. "Who are you?" he said.

The girl dropped her hand, slightly confused and Smith said, "Sorry, how rude of me. This is Tabitha Grey. She is… my… niece." he said, at the same time that Tabitha said, "Wife." They glanced at each other and then Smith continued, "My niece's wife. Yes."

There was an awkward silence after that before Tabitha said, "Well. Anyway. We better get back to moving our stuff in. It was nice to meet you." With that, she gathered up as much of her belongings as she could carry and hurried to a door under the stairs. She struggled to get it open before hurrying through it, the sound of her descending more stairs filling the silence.

Smith gave a big, bright smile. "I better help her. We must meet up sometime. Lunch. Brunch. Scones, I love a good scone, don't you?" he said, picking up boxes and bags and expertly stacking them on top of each other as he backed towards the door. "Another time. Tuesday, Wednesday. Actually not Wednesday, I'm playing Bridge. Thursday."

With that he disappeared through the door and it closed with a loud bang.

John and Sherlock stood there in silence for a few seconds, before John turned to his friend and said. "Is it just me, or do they seem like a pair of awful liars?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He was looking down at the hand that Smith had shook. He could swear it was tingling.


	3. Chapter 3

A case came up shortly after that, the theft of a priceless piece of art that Sherlock just knew was linked to a series of poisonings in and around London. His thoughts on the girl in the basement were filed away in an area of his brain reserved for mysteries still unsolved, a rather empty room, and he tried not to dwell on her presence that much. However, he did often find himself gazing blankly out the kitchen window, which looked down on the tiny back garden of 221B Baker St. Though he never saw Tabitha out there, he knew that the freshly dug beds and pots of seedlings had not been left by Mrs. Hudson, who had little interest in gardening. Sometimes he found himself studying some item left in the garden by Tabitha, a green gardening glove, a china teacup, a straw hat wrapped in an orange scarf, trying to figure out who she was through these briefly forgotten possessions.

One day, as he hurried down the stairs, with the intent of measuring the opening of the postbox on the street, to see if someone could indeed post a vacuum packed human liver via Royal Mail, he ran into her. As he reached the bottom of the stairs and hurried for the front door the sound of a key turning clicked through the hallway and the front door swung open.

Sherlock would never admit this, but he nearly panicked. He knew it could not be John, because John had only just left for the shops and would not be back so soon. And he knew it was not Mrs. Hudson because she had come up to give him his post only minutes before. He found himself not wanting to run into Tabitha, or Mr. Smith just yet. He felt unprepared, at a loss for information. Like a normal person.

But before he could hide or hightail it back upstairs, the door swung open and there stood Tabitha, weighed down by heavy shopping bags, in cropped jeans and sleeveless shirt, hair tied up in a scarf. She started when she saw Sherlock frozen in the doorway, blocking her path. When he didn't move, she smiled nervously and said, "Can I come in?"

Sherlock had been staring at her again, trying to glean more from her. Clothes seemed to be from local boutiques, nothing fancy. Hair scarf was old, possibly belonging to a mother or aunt. She wore no jewellery, had no tattoos, no scars, only numerous freckles. When she spoke he snapped back to the real world an began to back up into the hallway to let her in. He stopped as he reached the stairs and watched her as she walked in for a few seconds before turning to head back upstairs, post box measuring forgotten.

"Mr. Holmes?" He stopped. Turning, he came back down the stairs, stopping on the bottom step. Tabitha stepped up to him, tiny as he towered over her on the stairs but she seemed unperturbed. She held out a and to him and it was a few moments before he realized he was expected to shake it. He did and she smiled and said, "Mr. Holmes, we seem to have gotten off the wrong foot. I'd hate for us to be distant, I always pride myself on being a friendly person. How would you feel about going for coffee sometime? Start again."

Sherlock was silent, looking down at her tiny hand still clasped in his. His eyes looked up to meet hers and he said, "Sherlock." Tabitha frowned, "I'm sorry?" Sherlock briefly put his other hand over hers before taking them both back. "You can call me Sherlock." There was something shared between them, almost a smile, before Sherlock turned and walked back up the stairs.

Tabitha watched after him for a few moments until he door upstairs closed and then looked to the door under the stairs, where stood the man with the bowtie.

"What do you think Doctor?" she asked, picking up the shopping again, "Is that really Sherlock Holmes?" The Doctor shrugged, taking some of the bags off her, "We've been running through a lot of universes, for a long time. Stands to reason anyone who was a fictional character in one would exist in some others. There's even universes where I don't exist, I'm just a face on a screen."

Tabitha elbowed him. "Oh shove off, being so melodramatic." she looked up the stairs again, becoming serious. "Will I be safe here Doctor?" the Doctor put a bag down and ever so gently brushed his hand over her cheek. "Poor Tabby Grey, the Moment girl, no where to call your own." He smiled, and she felt like everything would be ok. "Of course you'll be safe. You're living with the Doctor, a floor below the legendary Sherlock Holmes. You're safe as houses. Safe as toast." Tabitha smiled at him and, hoisting her shopping up, headed through the door and down the stairs.

The Doctor hesitated and looked around the front hallway for signs of Them. Making sure They hadn't snuck in while he wasn't looking. Still safe. For now. He then looked up the stairs in the direction of where he knew Sherlock Holmes was. Tabitha didn't know it, and neither did the detective but the Doctor had brought them here on purpose.

"Nowhere safer than with Sherlock Holmes." He said to himself, before heading down the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

The café Tabitha chose was across town, a tiny greasy spoon establishment with plastic chairs and formica tables, the menus on laminated sheets of A4 paper, printed off somebody's computer. Sherlock thought she looked out of place as he stepped through the door, a tiny thing sitting at a nearby table, colours so faded compared to the garishness of the rest of the café, like a water colour Cottingley fairy. Why had she chosen this place, so cheap and far from their home. This girl continued to baffle him.

He ordered a coffee and sat opposite her and she smiled at him over a bowl of some kind of desert, jam and sponge and custard, that was emanating a sickly sweet smell. "Hello Sherlock. How are you? Sorry, I ordered already." Sherlock shook his head, "Perfectly alright. But may I say, strange choice of café." Tabitha's smile shrunk a little and she shrugged, "I like the jam pudding." she poked at the sweet desert but when she looked up again, her smile had been restored. "Sorry," she said, "I don't really have a very cultured palette. I haven't-" at this she stopped and hurriedly took a spoonful of her desert. Sherlock frowned, "You haven't what?" Tabitha licked custard off her spoon and hurriedly said, "I haven't tried many things," she smiled at the waitress as the girl brought Sherlock's coffee. She watched Sherlock take the coffee without ever taking his eyes of herself.

"You're very observant." said Tabitha. Sherlock inclined his head, "Yes it has been said." Tabitha gave a small laugh and then seemed to ponder for a few moments. She then looked up at Sherlock and said, " So. Mister Consulting Detective. What can you tell me about me?" She looked so serious and as though she was genuinely curious. Sherlock was uncertain. "Are you sure?" She nodded, "Yes. Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock sipped his coffee. "Well I can be quite unnerving for some people. You won't tell me to piss off, will you?" Tabitha gave a funny little half smile and said, "I'm afraid I cannot guarantee that. But I'll try my best." Sherlock nodded and then looked at her, taking in one last look before he steepled his fingers and began to talk.

"Your full name is Tabitha Avery Grey, according to a letter from the library you got in the post, and you were born roughly nineteen and a half years ago, in the republic of Ireland I believe, due to the fact that I often see you drinking large amounts of tea but I don't think you are English as you take your tea very strong with two sugars, the most common way of taking tea in Ireland. If I could guess, somewhere in the south east. Kilkenny, or Waterford perhaps. You haven't been there in a long time, but nor have you been here in England, evidenced by the fact that I don't often see you leave your house, suggesting you don't know much about your surroundings. Traveling then, I presume. But nowhere with lots of sunshine, you have no tan, your skin is pale, like a porcelain doll-" and Sherlock stopped abruptly, aware of what he had just said out loud. Like a doll. Idiot Sherlock. But Tabitha wasn't listening. She was poking at her desert with her spoon, a pained look on her face. Sherlock licked his lips, suddenly nervous. "Tabitha? Did I say too much? I'm sorry if I offended you or scared you. You can tell me to piss off if you like."

Tabitha looked up. She appeared to be miles away. "You think I was born in Ireland?" she said, quietly. Sherlock nodded. "Yes. I mean, yes I thought so. Was I wrong?" Tabitha looked out the window and shook her head. "No. Well, I don't know. I could well have been born there." She was quiet. Sherlock frowned. "You don't know where you were born?" Tabitha shook her head. "No. I was raised… I grew up in…care. A long, long way from here."

Sherlock surveyed her for a few moments, before leaning across the table. "You aren't telling me something." It was not an accusation, nor a demand to be told. Just a statement.

Tabitha met his eye and gave him a small, sad smile, "You are clever," she whispered, "Ok, you're right, I'm leaving bits out. It wasn't care. I was taken, when I was a baby. By… people, that weren't my parents. They took me and they kept me for many years until the Doc- until John Smith found me." They were both silent. Tabitha had gone red, perhaps feeling she had said too much. To reassure her, Sherlock nervously put a hand across the table and touched her fingers. Her eyes darted up to his face. He looked away and said, "I'm sorry." She smiled thinly but didn't say anything. Sherlock frowned slightly, "But… but, I don't understand. How did they take you? Did anyone look for you at all? Where were you for so long?"

Tabitha went redder and hastily began to gather her things together, reaching to put on her coat. She stood hurriedly and Sherlock did too. "Tabitha? I'm sorry, I was just curious. Please don't go." She shook her head, zipping up her jacket, not making eye contact "No. It's my fault. I said too much. I have to go." Sherlock put out a hand, wanting to touch her arm but faltering, "I'm sorry. I just want to understand you." Tabitha paused and then reached out to take his hand. When she looked at him, her young face looked so tired and sad it made him angry at whatever had made her feel that way.

"You can't understand Sherlock. There's lots of things I can't… there's lots of things that can't be explained. I'm sorry." With that she gave his hand a quick squeeze, dropped some money on the café table and headed for the door.

In a last effort to make her stay Sherlock called after her, "I saw that blue box disappear." Tabitha froze, but didn't turn around. Sherlock found her was breathing fast and his heart was pounding. It was the first time he had said it out loud, first time he had allowed the thought to manifest itself coherently. But Tabitha just put her hand on the door and pushed it open. "No, you didn't." she said, and then she was gone.

Sherlock was left standing in the empty diner, feeling more confused than ever. It took him a long time to gather himself enough to pay for his coffee and leave.

Sherlock arrived home about an hour later, having wanted to leave Tabitha enough time to get home and hide away in her basement apartment. He had offended her and he didn't know what to do other than stay out of her way. He let himself into 221B Baker St quietly and was heading up the stairs when he heard the basement door open and a voice said, "Mr. Holmes?" Sherlock froze and turned around, trying to appear calm. John Smith was standing in the basement door, arms folded and as Sherlock turned, he closed the door behind him an stepped into the hallway. "Mr. Smith." Sherlock said, slowly heading back down the stairs. He stopped in front of Mr. Smith whose arms were still folded. Silence fell over them. After a few moments, Sherlock said, "Can I help you?"

"Tabitha's upset." Mr. Smith started, voice sharp. "She went out to meet you and she came back flustered and all crying and upset. Did you upset her?" Sherlock felt his stomach sink. She had been crying. He felt terrible. She was only a girl, so young and had so much happen to her and he had attacked her. "I- I didn't mean to." Sherlock said, mortified. Mr. Smith nodded. "I'm sure." Sherlock was desperate, "No, I swear. Is she ok? Can I see her. I'd never do anything to upset her on purpose. She's wonderful. I just don't have much of a filter. I say things I shouldn't. I cant help myself. I'm so stupid. Is she going to be ok?"

Mr. Smith held up a hand to silence him. "Alright, alright calm down, it's ok. Yes, she's upset, but she'll be fine. She forgives you. I just wanted to see if I could be scary." Sherlock was silent. Mr. Smith continued. "I understand your curiosity. Tabitha is special isn't she?" Sherlock nodded, "yes." he breathed, without meaning to. Mr. Smith inclined his head. "You want her to be ok?"

"yes."

"Look after her, keep her safe?"

"Yes."

"Will you?"

Sherlock frowned, "What?" Mr. Smith was looking him dead in the eye, face serious. "Will you keep her safe." Sherlock nodded, still confused, "Yes, of course, always." Mr. Smith smiled, face suddenly warm and friendly, "Good." he said, and turned to go back to the basement.

"Wait," Sherlock called. Mr. Smith stopped and turned, face still amiable. "Why do you ask?" Sherlock continued. Mr. Smith shrugged. "It's always good to have people looking out for each other. After all, she is a very, very special girl." He said it in such a way that Sherlock felt as though he was missing some hidden meaning, but before he could ask anything else, Mr. Smith had turned and vanished back into the basement.

Sherlock stood, frozen in the front hall. He was confused and more than a little lost. But he did know one thing. He would do everything n his power to keep Tabitha safe from anything that meant her any harm.


End file.
